Cutting strait lines on the golf course

with the enormous fairway mowers

is satisfying

It is like paving a road to heaven

when the sun rises

and the clouds are red and gold

You travel 400 yards

and admire the pattern on the other side


Even in heaven

Satan gets to visit

from time to time

and you see the short boss

who is bald

walking toward you with some negative words to say about your cut

“Your lines aren’t strait! I’ve been cutting grass for 30 years. You just fucked up this fairway.”

I had to give him props for his alliteration. I thought it was above him. 

I nodded and listened to him berate me for 15 minutes and then continued doing what I was already doing.

I watched Billy mowing fairways on hole number eight. The boss never talked to him.

A flock of geese were trying to cross his fairway.

Canadians to be exact, and they were used to golfers giving them the right-of-way

Suddenly, guts and feathers flew everywhere. 

Strangled squawking pierced the morning air and Billy took a sip of coffee.

I continued mowing.

There was the occasional mole hill I had to scoop with the shovel attached to my mower. 

The moles were a real problem and the boss didn’t know what to do with them.

It was illegal to trap fur-bearing animals, but traps were the only effective means to get rid of moles.

The city deemed it “cruel” to use traps. The boss was on number 11 trying to smoke the moles out of their holes. Nothing worked.

I know he tried three or four other methods, but I can’t remember what they were. 

The proshop began to complain. The mole situation was worse.

There were brown piles of dirt all over the golf course. The furry creatures were even burrowing up through the greens.

The boss decided to break the law and set traps. He killed dozens of moles in only a few days. 

Then he got a call from the city. “We understand you are using illegal traps. If you persist, you will be brought before an administrative council.”

Someone made an anonymous phone call. It could have been anyone. I don’t think anybody cared if a mole spent its last few moments of life in pain. They just hated the boss.